


What's In A Name?

by scatteringmyashes



Series: Athos/D'Artagnan AU Fest [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 22:02:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6347344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatteringmyashes/pseuds/scatteringmyashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos lost the love of his life, his soulmate, and settled for living the rest of his life a miserable man. But then d’Artagnan appeared, swinging his sword and screaming bloody murder, and never left.</p><p>You are born with one name on each wrist. One is the name of the person who will be your archenemy, the other is your soulmate. And, to top it all off, there’s no way of knowing which is which. </p><p>Soulmate AU that follows canon until it doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's In A Name?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not as happy with this one as I should be, but it's almost the end of March and I promised myself to add at least one story to the AU collection a month so yeah. Please point out any flaws and whatnot. Or tell me what you enjoyed.
> 
> Up next: the obligatory coffee shop AU. Kudos to sigmund to suggesting it! If any of you have other prompts/AUs that you'd like done, shoot me a message here or on tumblr or just stick it in a comment.
> 
> As always, feel free to follow me on tumblr [here!](http://thepoetofjustice.tumblr.com/)

Anne was a beautiful name, Olivier had decided as soon as her name came in on his left wrist, and Anne de la Fère would sound even more lovely. D’Artagnan, though, was an ugly name to ten year old Olivier. It sounded harsh, rude and, above all else, it sounded like a name that only a boy would go by. Importantly, Olivier’s enemy couldn’t be a girl if there was a boy’s name on his other wrist. So, unlike some of the others who got ambiguous names or two boy names or two girl names, Olivier knew from a young age who his soulmate was and who his enemy was.

When he met a beautiful young lady with brilliant eyes and dark hair, the name ‘Olivier’ curled around her right wrist in his best handwriting, he knew that she was the one. Of course they kept to tradition, courting one another for an acceptable amount of time, but their little dance was just for show. Olivier knew that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, wanted to prove to Anne that he was a good soulmate, that he could do anything for her and would in a heartbeat. 

They were in love and he was happy. Olivier’s favorite color was blue and she would leave sky-colored forget-me-nots on his desk, in his papers, on their bed. She would wear dresses that flowed to the floor like water pouring from a cliffside, each crease in her dress a ripple in the waves of the ocean. She complimented him in every action, every word, and those who saw them could only whisper in envy at how lucky they were to find one another so young. There were many who did not find their soulmates until years had passed and necessity had brought about a different marriage. Olivier counted his blessing and prayed to God that his life would continue on its pleasant course. 

Anne was pale and elegant and her smile blinded him, the sun itself weak against the light that blossomed from her being. She was beyond words but that did not stop Olivier from trying, again and again, to preserve her beauty in poetry. His clumsy attempts were met with soft laughter and gentle caresses, promises that he was good enough regardless. The nights they were together were precious memories, even as they numbered in the dozens and then the hundreds. 

Olivier forgot, for a time, the other name on his wrist. This d’Artagnan had failed to appear for twenty years, surely he would not come now. Even if he did, Olivier was practiced in riding and in fencing and in shooting. He was prepared to kill his enemy if that was what it took. Yes, there was the slim possibility that their relationship would not end in bloodshed. Olivier had heard of those who were merely rivals, pushing the other to do better but not holding any wish to kill one another. But that was rare and Olivier was not going to risk himself. He was not going to risk his Anne, his wonderful wife, the person who made his life worth living.

He never saw Anne’s other wrist, the left one with the name of the person she would be enemies with, but Olivier understood that. For women, their archenemies were much more secretive. After all, it was improper for the fairer sex to duel and their methods of destruction were much more covert. Olivier also considered, at times, that perhaps Anne had already met her enemy and killed them. But if she had, she never told him, and Olivier did not push her.

Then came the business with Thomas, Olivier’s precious younger brother, perhaps the only person who could come close to Anne in terms of Olivier’s favor. Thomas, that foolish boy, who could never stop himself from asking questions and taking matters into his own hands. Thomas, the person Olivier had seen learn to walk and to talk and to read. Thomas, whom Olivier had taught to ride a horse and hold a pistol and carry a sword. 

Thomas, who uncovered the secrets of Anne’s past and exposed her, only to be killed by the woman Olivier loved. By the woman Olivier thought he knew. 

It was the Comte de la Fère who gave the order for Anne to be hung, who could not watch his wife hang by her neck, could not bare to see his soulmate die in the name of the law. 

It was Athos, no more a noble than the blacksmith who had tied the noose, who rode into Paris on a cool spring day and came to the garrison of the musketeers. He was not the youngest, nor was he the oldest, but he was the most skilled and he was accepted quickly. Captain Treville knew most of the truth, knew that something terrible had happened, but never pushed. Never questioned why Athos, who had two perfectly clear names on his wrists, did not attempt to search for their owners.

Aramis and Porthos were drawn to Athos like flies to honey and they were the only reason he did not die within the first year, throwing himself into fights and the bottle with increasing frequency until his two companions put their feet down. They stopped the majority of his self-destructive behavior and if they wondered why he drank so much, he had only to tell them that there had been a woman. Yes, there had been a woman and she had died. 

Athos’ friends were smart and tactful, for the most part. They needed no other explanation for his actions. He gave none.

In many ways, seeing Aramis and Porthos was almost painful. Athos learned soon that the two of them were soulmates, the kind that was platonic enough in public that the Church could not protest, but ran deeper under the surface than anyone really knew. Well, their fellow musketeers knew. Treville most certainly did. Perhaps there were others. But Aramis and Porthos were also two of the best and they worked together better than any other. Even Athos, who refused to work with anyone else, felt disconnected from the two. When Aramis and Porthos fought, it was clockwork. 

It made Athos’ heart ache, missing the time when the only dancing he did was in a hall, not a battlefield, and his only partner wore a beautiful dress, not leather. But he pushed those thoughts aside and continued to fight for King and country, for pride and honor, for some source of purpose in his life that seemed void of any. 

Life was… It wasn’t good. There was no way it could ever be good, not anymore. But while Athos’ life was not good it was not bad either. He was content. Perfectly content to live out his days fighting and drinking, aiming towards an honorable death in battle rather than a peaceful, quiet one in bed. If he was going to have a purpose he would damn well see it through, after all. Quitting was not an option. It never had been.

But yes, life was not good nor was it bad. Life was simply life and Athos was content. That was all he could ask for, nowadays. To be happy after losing his soulmate would be a sin, that he was quite certain of. It was enough, yes, to be content with the way his life went. 

Then d’Artagnan came charging into Athos’ life, swinging a sword and screaming bloody murder, and never left. 

 

 

 

 

“Athos, why don’t we go show d’Artagnan the sights of Paris?” Aramis asked, typical grin settled comfortably on his face. The offer was a thinly cloaked question of his mental state, Athos knew, and it would no doubt calm his comrades if he were to join them. But he wanted nothing more than to get roaring drunk, forget half the night, and wake in his rough bed with a pounding head. Alone. That was the important part.

That being said, Aramis now had an expression that was close to begging and Porthos looked like he would take it personally if Athos refused. It wasn’t even that Athos disliked drinking with the others. They tended to not complain too much when he used them to hobble home and it was certainly much safer to get drunk when he had two other musketeers ready to cover him. Hell, there were just as many times when Athos was the one dragging the other two out of trouble as occasions where it was the other way around. 

But Athos had almost been executed by a firing squad not two days ago and his rival was standing there, awkward with too long of limbs and uncertainty written all over his face. So no, Athos was not willing to walk with the others to get a drink. He was self-destructive, yes, but not that much.

“I am certain that d’Artagnan will be fine in your very capable hands,” Athos responded, nodding at Aramis though his eyes glanced at Porthos. The large man would have to make sure the other two stayed out of prison, which could be a struggle in of itself with just Aramis. Who knew what trouble d’Artagnan could get into drunk. After all, he thought it was a good idea to challenge a musketeer to a duel with no plan and that was after having a day to think about it.

Porthos shifted and tilted his hat down, a silent promise that he would take care of the musketeer and his plus one. Aramis either missed the silent exchange or had no comment, choosing instead to sling an arm around d’Artagnan and lead him out of the garrison, chattering about the multitude of bars in the city. He, of course, had sampled the majority of them and could recommend any based on a wide range of criteria. Athos didn’t hear any subtle jabs aimed at him and for that he was grateful. 

He was less pleased that he was standing with Porthos who now made no effort to hide his worried expression. “So he’s your rival.” Thankfully Porthos cared little for elaborate words or careful phrases. It was not that Athos found it difficult to keep up with them, he just preferred not too. 

“Yes. He is.” Athos shifted, fingers rubbing the hilt of his sword. Its weight was comforting, a nice anchor to keep him tied to the earth but not heavy enough to risk dragging him down. “I suppose you have advice for me?” Porthos let out a noncommittal noise. 

“You know Aramis and I are not the usual type of soulmates. The likelihood of you and d’Artagnan being the same…” Porthos trailed off with a shrug. He didn’t need to explain to Athos the strange situation the two musketeers in question were in. It was not unheard of for same-sex soulmates to exist, but it was most certainly uncommon. What was the most abnormal for Porthos and Aramis was the fact that they had female names on their other wrists. Furthermore, Porthos had already met the other and, if he was to be believed, loved her almost as much as he loved Aramis. 

Athos had never heard of people with such close rivalries or competitive soulmates until he joined the musketeers and he supposed he never would hear about it again if he left. There were certainly whispers among the garrison that Porthos and Aramis had two soulmates apiece. That was something Athos had never heard of and if the other two heard such rumors, well, they did nothing to discourage them.

“You don’t hate him,” Porthos observed rather pointlessly. Athos gave him a look and the musketeer chuckled. “He does not hate you either. I will keep an ear out if you wish?” Porthos’ offer to be a spy, to make sure that Athos was not the subject of any plots against his life or well-being, was tempting. 

But to say yes would be admitting that he cared about what people thought, and that was one thing Athos did not let himself do anymore. Aramis, Porthos, and Treville were exceptions. D’Artagnan was not going to be one. “I will be fine. Unless he plans on murdering me in my sleep, do not concern yourself,” Athos replied with a slight twitch of his lips. Porthos had known him for long enough to recognize it as a smile. 

“In that case I will most certainly not inform you. Aramis and I might finally be rid of you.” Porthos’ words had no bite, though the slap on the back had quite a sting. Adjusting his hat once more, Porthos declared that he was going off to drink and left. He gave Athos plenty of time to interrupt, to announce that he wished to join, but did not push the issue.

Athos was thankful for that. It was nice to feel that some things were still under his control. 

With that in mind, he left the garrison and walked in the opposite direction of his friends. Athos had an idea of where Aramis would bring d’Artagnan and, with the knowledge secure in his not-yet drunken brain, Athos went to a different bar. When he got there he ordered an entire bottle of wine and settled in to forget, if just for a few hours, the events of the last few days. It worked, more or less, and if he had no idea how he got back to his lodgings that was nothing new. 

He appeared at the garrison hung over the next morning, yet still in time for inspection, and he most certainly didn’t care that d’Artagnan was there too. If the Gascon wanted to pretend to be a musketeer it was none of his business. Besides, even Athos could admit that d’Artagnan was good enough with a sword and pistol to not be entirely useless. Whatever emotions Athos did feel about being given the task to keep d’Artagnan out of too much trouble was quickly squashed. 

Athos had promised Treville, after all, that any personal feelings would not interfere with musketeer business. That conversation had taken place many years ago but the principle was still there. And, for all the wrong Athos had done, he didn’t want to break anymore of his promises.

Regardless, Athos did not expect d’Artagnan to become a part of his life or his routine to the point where it was no longer ‘Athos and Porthos and Aramis’ but ‘Athos and Porthos and Aramis _and d’Artagnan.’_ The other musketeers around the garrison enjoyed d’Artagnan’s company, finding his innocence of certain things charming and his fiery passion admirable. Aramis seemed intent on corrupting him swiftly while Porthos just approved of anything that made his soulmate happy. No doubt d’Artagnan’s willingness to get drunk every night boosted his reputation among the musketeers, rather than alienate him like it did with Athos, but no one felt brave enough to point that out. Drunkard or not, Athos could still best anyone in a duel.

It was Athos and Athos alone who kept his relationship with d’Artagnan as impersonal as possible, intent on keeping feelings a non-issue. But for all he tried, even Athos could not keep himself from growing close to the bloody Gascon. It started simple enough and not only because of Aramis’ not-subtle hint that Athos was avoiding the problem staring him in the face. True or not, Athos didn’t appreciate it coming up in conversation. Still, it resulted in Athos no longer ‘avoiding d’Artagnan like he had the plague’ so Aramis won, more or less.

That being said, there were only so many ways Athos could connect with anyone and one of them was the tested and true method of fighting. The only difference was that Athos wasn’t trying to kill d’Artagnan. Yet.

“You need to adjust your grip when you pivot. Right now you are losing too much control which lets me do this,” Athos corrected with a quick twist of his own sword. D’Artagnan’s wasn’t ripped from his grasp, like it would have in an inferior man’s hands, but the point was forced towards the ground. The opening was large enough that Athos could slide in under d’Artagnan’s guard and rest the tip of his blade against the younger man’s throat. 

“But if I hold it like this,” d’Artagnan complained as he adjusted his hand to mimic Athos’ current position, “then I lose power in the cut.” 

“Yes, but that is why you train. To get stronger.” Athos stepped back and resumed his stance. “Besides, if you are cutting someone with your blade then you’re doing it wrong.” It was true that conventional dueling rules did not apply on the battlefield, but the basics of holding a sword had been the same and Athos had plenty of motivation to learn. 

Besides, he enjoyed being the best swordsman in the musketeers. Aramis could keep his title of sniper and Porthos had his wrestling, but fencing was Athos’ area of expertise. He liked feeling as if something was his, as if others could not rip it from his hands at any moment. Intangible feelings were difficult to take from someone and he knew, after everything he had been through, to value them.

Much like he held tight to the few moments he did spend with d’Artagnan. “I can’t see why the others can’t join us,” the young man had commented more than once. 

“Because they are distracting and need much less help than you,” Athos replied every time, with some level of variation. D’Artagnan huffed and moaned and grumbled, but he never outright complained. It was stubbornness that stopped him. That and pride. D’Artagnan had both in spades. 

If it didn’t get him killed, Athos had soon decided, then they would be his best qualities. 

And if Athos didn’t really believe what he told d’Artagnan, well, that was something no one needed to know. Athos was allowed to lie if it got him time with his rival, right? That was acceptable. It wouldn’t be the worst thing Athos had ever done. 

“Now, again!” Athos didn’t give d’Artagnan time to prepare before going back on the offensive, pushing him immediately. They were not quite even, no one was at that level with Athos, but perhaps after a few years d’Artagnan would be close.

Athos felt his blood burning, his heart pounding, his lungs racing and his body humming with excitement he had not felt in a long time. Yes, if d’Artagnan didn’t get himself killed then he would be a wonderful opponent. Even inexperienced and undertrained he was still entertaining, if not yet a challenge.

 

 

 

 

The next time Aramis extended an offer for the four of them to get drinks, Athos accepted. He had the most fun that night than any other since he had joined the musketeers and, almost more shocking, he could remember it all the next morning. Going to a pub after a long day became a part of their tradition and Athos continued to train d’Artagnan. Their sparring matches became harder and longer as d’Artagnan picked up tricks from other musketeers who were willing to spend the time with him. While he was still not nearly ready for a full battle, he was no longer the inexperienced Gascon who thought it was a good idea to challenge a musketeer to a duel over any little slight. 

“You can be proud, you know,” Porthos muttered one hot afternoon while the two lounged underneath the shade offered by the balcony, watching Aramis dither over d’Artagnan’s shooting technique. “He has improved. Noticeably. And it is thanks, in large part, to you.” Athos did not reply, not even to acknowledge the compliment, but Porthos wasn’t looking for any. “He has the potential to be a musketeer.” 

To that, Athos did reply. “He could be the best of us.” He spoke as if discussing the weather, a certainty that did not have leave room for interpretation. To him, there was none. “D’Artagnan has more talent in one hand than many men have in their entire body. All I am doing is showing him how to use it.” 

Porthos raised an eyebrow as Athos stood. “If you tell him that, I will personally ensure you are on guard duty for the rest of the year,” Athos added. “D’Artagnan has enough in his head as it is. He does not need one of us influencing him.” _Also,_ some part of Athos thought, _there is no need for him to know how much value he has._ It was selfish, really. If d’Artagnan didn’t know then he would not try to find someone else to train with, someone with a better temperament than sour Athos.

Porthos mumbled something under his breath and Athos pointedly pretended not to hear him. If the comment had anything to do with Athos taking a rather personal interest in d’Artagnan’s training, well, that was just coincidence. 

 

 

 

 

“No.” Treville, through years of practice, did not sigh or express any sign of annoyance. In fact, he continued to watch Athos as the musketeer twitched with frustration. “He isn’t a musketeer, you can’t ask him to do this.” Porthos and Aramis exchanged looks while d’Artagnan opened his mouth to argue. “You,” Athos cut him off, turning and narrowing his eyes at the Gascon, “do not know what you are about to agree to. This is a mission for musketeers--”

“And how am I supposed to prove myself if I don’t act like one?” D’Artagnan bristled, using his extra few inches of height to his advantage. Athos, however, was not intimidated. He had knocked d’Artagnan on his backside too many times to feel in any danger around the young man.

“By listening to your superiors and not getting killed!” Aramis shifted from where he stood, lips pursed. There was a comment on the tip of his tongue that Athos was not in the mood to entertain. He made that clear by glaring at Aramis, who adopted a sudden fascination with the wood floor. 

Athos was more than willing to continue this discussion for the rest of the afternoon if need be, but Treville was not. The captain coughed and Athos, emotional or not, reigned himself in and faced him. 

“D’Artagnan is the only one who can do this, Athos.” Treville focused on the subject of the argument. “I would not ask you to do this if I had no other choice. It is true that you owe us no loyalty, nor do we have any claim over your life. But if you do this then we will be in your debt.” Athos had to remind himself that strangling the captain would be a bad idea, no matter how much he wanted to. At the end of the day, Treville had the final say in missions and it was Athos’ job to follow orders. That had never been an issue before, so why was it so damn hard now?

After a moment, d’Artagnan nodded. “I’ll do it.” Treville laced his fingers together and regarded the four with a careful eye. 

“You are all dismissed, then. Except you, Athos. Stay. We need to talk about this assignment.” The four all gave shallow bows to Treville and three pairs of boots wandered down the stairs to the garrison itself. Athos could hear Porthos congratulating d’Artagnan on getting his first job as a musketeer. D’Artagnan’s laughter twisted Athos’ stomach into knots. 

He swallowed and forced himself to ignore the sensation. It wasn’t all that important anyway. 

“Is there something I should know about your relationship with d’Artagnan?” Treville asked in a calm manner that made it seem like Athos should know exactly what he was talking about. Upon receiving nothing but a blank expression from Athos, though, Treville elaborated. “You have been training d’Artagnan personally. I have no reason to find fault in that. However, if you are going to disagree with my direct orders in front of others I have the right to know why.” 

Athos felt his anger rise at the accusation. Yes, the captain knew that d’Artagnan was one of the names on Athos’ wrists. As part of joining the musketeers, one’s marks were recorded as a method of identification. But Treville also knew, by way of Olivier de la Fère’s reputation, that Athos had a wife. He had a soulmate and now she was dead. 

Treville sensed the shift in mood and raised his hands, palms open. “I meant no offense, Athos. I expected you of all people to understand that soulmarks, positive and negative, come in many degrees. If d’Artagnan is your rival or your lover I do not care. That is between you and him. But I am concerned when my best man commits insubordination over something so routine.” 

Upon hearing Treville’s explanation, Athos felt his blood cool. His head still pounded by he attributed that to a lack of solid food. He hadn’t had time in the morning to eat, instead gulping down a thing of water before running to the garrison. The sensation had nothing to do with his relationship with d’Artagnan. That would be ridiculous. 

“D’Artagnan is still young,” Athos replied in as cool a manner as he could muster. “He does not think with his head and he will only get himself into danger if we allow him to do this.” Treville nodded.

“Then what would you have me do? Coddle him until he can no longer swing a sword? Send him off to be a farmer in Gascony?” The captain questioned. Athos shook his head.

“You know that is not--”

“You need to trust him, Athos. He is skilled and much more clever than you give him credit for. If you allow him to take risks then he could be one of the best. Protecting him would not help, only hinder, his growth.” Treville was right, of course, and Athos couldn’t help but feel like he knew that from the start of their conversation. 

That didn’t mean he had to agree and, if he wanted, Athos knew he could continue to be a pain in Treville’s side until the man was forced to reassign d’Artagnan or take actual disciplinary action against Athos. But for all of his faults, Athos was no fool. He did want what was best for d’Artagnan. Rivals or not, Athos did not want to ruin d’Artagnan. They were not soulmates but they were not enemies either and that, Athos had decided soon after his rescue, was something to be appreciated.

Athos had enough blood on his hands. He didn’t need to be responsible for the death of both his soulmarks. 

“I know that, sir.” Athos sighed and tugged at his jacket. The heavy leather was good for keeping him warm and provided some level of protection against fists and blunt weaponry, but that was all it was good for. Then again, it was at least more comfortable than what the nobility had to wear. 

“Is this mission going to be a problem?” Treville asked. Athos shook his head. “Good.” After a moment, Athos assumed he was dismissed and began to leave. “Ah, Athos?” The musketeer stopped and turned to face his captain. Treville had a controlled, neutral expression. “Please tell d’Artagnan that if he changes his mind at any point, we will pull him out and his honor will remain in tact.” 

It didn’t matter if they offered all of France to d’Artagnan upon leaving his assignment, Athos knew the lad would not do it. He wasn’t sure if it was a Gascon trait or just d’Artagnan proving that he had no understanding of the term ‘moderate,’ but there was no one who could challenge him in terms of sheer stubborn will. 

Still, it was a nice offer. Athos nodded. “I shall.” With that, he left the room. Almost immediately he was accosted by d’Artagnan, neither Porthos nor Aramis in sight. “We did not talk about you,” Athos drawled in a preemptive attempt to dissuade d’Artagnan from asking. From the look on his face, d’Artagnan believed Athos about as far as he could throw the musketeer. 

Athos sighed. He did a lot of that around the garrison, much of it thanks to three certain people. “What do you want to know?” 

“Do you not trust me?” D’Artagnan questioned, which was just about the last thing Athos had in mind. He stared at the Gascon with as much surprise as he ever showed. D’Artagnan’s eyes took in Athos’ expression before it disappeared, locked down underneath layers of ambivalence and cold neutrality. “Nevermind.”

There was still a look of concern in d’Artagnan’s eyes and Athos pinched the bridge of his nose. “If you want to talk, can we do it somewhere where it isn’t snowing?” To say that it was snowing was a bit much, but it was cold and a few flakes drifted down, coating the ground in slush as they melted. 

At d’Artagnan’s nod, the two made their way into the armory of the garrison. Rows of muskets, armor, and various tools filled the room. It was empty of people, however, and the stone walls kept the majority of the cold out of the air. For Athos, it was just as good a place as any other, though he would rather not have this conversation at all. 

“If you are concerned about my perception of your abilities, d’Artagnan, I can assure you that I think highly of your skill,” Athos began. “For someone your age you are exceptionally talented. That is why I train with you, to help you reach your full potential.” 

“Then why don’t you trust me with this mission?” The young man asked, words falling from his lips with weight behind every syllable. His posture was defensive; arms crossed, legs apart, eyes narrowed, ready for an argument. Athos had half a mind to give him one, but he was too tired for this. Too tired and too sober.

“Because you, despite what you might think, are not a musketeer and this is not your business.”

“It’s not my business to help protect king and country?” D’Artagnan’s question was punctuated with a rise of his eyebrows, a look all too familiar to Athos as he had seen it many times on Aramis. 

“It is not your business to die for him. Not like this.” Athos stepped forward and d’Artagnan tensed, but did not move away. “We are rivals, d’Artagnan, but I do not want you dead.” 

The two met eyes for several moments, neither blinking, until something broke in the air. The fight sagged out of d’Artagnan and he slumped his shoulders, turning away and resting a hand on his sword’s hilt. Athos could see the tension leaching out of d’Artagnan’s muscles, the anger and other emotions seeping from his body. He wanted to ask what had changed, wondered what he had said to cause this to happen, but d’Artagnan did not seem in the mood for such questions.

“All right,” he murmured. “I will tell Captain Treville that I’ve changed my mind.” The words were so soft that Athos thought he was hearing things at first, that he had hallucinated, because there was no way that d’Artagnan would say that. But then the Gascon began to walk away and Athos snapped out of his suppor. 

He strode forward and grabbed d’Artagnan’s shoulder, forcing the younger man to face him once again. “D’Artagnan, I do not want you to refuse this assignment for my sake. I just want you to assure me that you will not die.” As soon as Athos heard his own words, he regret them. He was in no place to make such demands, not of anyone much less d’Artagnan. But he could not take them back and so Athos just schooled his expression to one of an apathetic, impartial man who just did not want his hard work to go to waste.

If d’Artagnan could see through him, he did not say anything. For that, Athos was grateful. 

“I’ll do my best, Athos.” The Gascon pulled away and hesitated, licking his lips as if to say something. Or perhaps he was waiting for Athos to add another comment, something to reassure him that everything would be all right. None came and Athos watched in silence as d’Artagnan walked away.

 

 

 

 

Athos felt his heart threaten to burst, every nerve in his body screaming, mind unable to think as it drowned in white noise, an endless cycle of _not him not him not d’Artagnan not him_ repeating itself in his thoughts. He could not focus, could barely hold his sword upright, relying on muscle memory and his companions to keep him alive. Vadim’s words, or really the lack of them, echoed in Athos’ head louder than the explosion itself. _Boom. Boom. Boom._ God, was d’Artagnan dead? Was he dead because Athos had let him go off on a mission, one that a fully trained musketeer would have had trouble with? Athos would never forgive himself if d’Artagnan, if those bright eyes and that cheeky grin, were gone. 

If d’Artagnan was dead because of Athos.

The three musketeers turned down the corridor, the tunnels pressing in around them, footsteps echoing against the stone. Athos said nothing, but they all knew what was going through his head. Something similar was, after all, in theirs. Porthos, with his big heart, who had vouched for d’Artagnan time and time again. Aramis, who had supported his soulmate and given d’Artagnan little comments to make up for Athos’ cold shoulder. 

God, what was the last thing Athos had said to d’Artagnan? A warning, telling him that this was not worth risking his life over. Telling him that he could leave now, pull out of the mission with his honor and life still in tact. Athos should have insisted that d’Artagnan stop, return to the garrison with the rest of the musketeers. They had all the information they needed, after all, and nothing good could come from d’Artagnan risking his life more.

Athos felt the bitter taste of bile rise in his throat and he forced those thoughts aside. Until he saw the body, he would refuse to accept that d’Artagnan was dead.

Seeing him standing in the gloom, a torch in one hand and his sword in the other, was a breath of life to a dying man. Athos didn’t know what to say, didn’t have the words to describe how he felt. Relief. That was one. But the others, god, how could he possibly attempt to articulate the fact that he had felt unable to breathe, that life had lost purpose and meaning, while the threat of d’Artagnan’s death was real?

“So you are alive.” It lacked the nicety, the finesse that Aramis would have brought, nor did it possess the quiet strength and sincerity that Porthos always delivered. No, it was rough and cold and impartial, everything Athos was to the world but not to d’Artagnan. After all, Athos was many things but he was not blind. He could recognize the spot that the Gascon was occupying in his heart, a spot that had no resident for many long years. 

“I think so.” D’Artagnan met Athos gaze and they exchanged emotions in silence. Athos was attempting to convey the concern and the pain that he had felt but all he received was a calm, soothing response. The silent _I am not dead, I am here, I am alive_ that d’Artagnan’s physical presence provided was not enough. Athos had the urge to touch the other man, to feel his warm skin and pounding heartbeat. 

He resisted. He had no right to do so, not after everything that had happened. 

They pursued Vadim and the realization that he was never tricked, that he knew from the start who d’Artagnan was, cut Athos to the bone. D’Artagnan should have died, this mission should have failed, but it didn’t. Not because of any level of skill or innate talent, nor because of greater intelligence or the musketeer’s ability to make a bad situation good. But because of luck. Because, for Vadim, this had all been a great game.

Athos almost lost d’Artagnan because of a madman’s game and the thought was enough to make him want to scream.

He’s certain to drink in excess when it is safe to do so. Part of him wishes for company. The rest of him is glad he’s alone.

 

 

 

 

It was ridiculous, really. D’Artagnan was a fully grown man who could make his own decisions. A young man, yes, who still had naive notions of loyalty and manners that could only have survived for so long because of his farm boy origins. But that did not mean that he had to be watched over like a personal prodigy, nor did Athos have any reason to do so in the first place. Did he put in a good amount of time and effort to train d’Artagnan? Yes. But Athos was careful to not seem to favor d’Artagnan anymore than his fellow musketeers.

“You have a soft spot for the lad.” It appeared, however, that either Athos was less skilled at hiding than he thought or Aramis was just exceptionally perceptive. For the sake of his ego, Athos was going to assume the latter. “It is not weakness, you know. Many rivals are close and care deeply for one another,” Aramis continued after he got no reply. Athos pretended to be rather fascinated with the care and cleaning of his pistol.

It did not work, but he had no illusion that it would. Aramis continued to speak, never looking at Athos head on, but rather stealing glances and peering out of the corners of his eyes. Why, Athos hadn’t the faintest idea. But if it made the sharpshooter pleased with himself, under some delusion of secrecy, then fine.

“As you know, Porthos and I are soulmates, but for the longest time we thought we were not.” Aramis enjoyed talking about his bond with the other musketeer far too often for almost everyone else’s tolerance. To the entire garrison’s surprise, Athos was the most patient. He, after all, had once known what it was like to have a soulmate. A long time ago he was the one with the unbearable stories.

Still, now was not the time. “If this is some excuse to talk about you and Porthos, I am not in the mood,” Athos told his friend. “My relationship with d’Artagnan is of no concern to you unless it effects our ability to do our duties.” He caught Aramis’ eyes and refused to back down. “Is that what you are saying?” 

Aramis, understanding that he had touched some kind of nerve, shook his head quickly. “No, but I just wanted you to know--”

“I am well aware that I am close to d’Artagnan. I train him to be the best he can be and in turn he respects me.” Athos was not sure what to make of that, if he should tell d’Artagnan all of the reasons why he was not someone to idolize. He would ask for advice, but who could he turn to? The only people who really knew him were Porthos and Aramis, and they seemed delighted that he was finally connecting with someone.

Well, someone who wasn’t a barmaid who happened to know his favorite drink. 

“If that concerns you,” Athos continued, “then feel free to say so. But until then, I would appreciate it if you let the subject be.” There were a handful of things that the three promised not to talk about. Porthos’ past, growing up in the Court of Miracles was one. Aramis’ disastrous training exercise that resulted in over a dozen dead musketeers was another. And Athos’ entire life before joining the musketeers, from his dead soulmate to his childhood, was the last and greatest taboo. 

It appeared that d’Artagnan and Athos’ relationship would be added to that list. Athos could tell, though, that Aramis wanted to argue. He wanted to push and prod and poke until answers were forthcoming and Athos was confessing his heart and soul. If it took excess drinking then Aramis would do so and even pay for the alcohol. But at the end of the day Aramis was a better friend than that and he just nodded and turned away. 

Athos was thankful and he started to express that, tried to form the words, but they shriveled up and died in his throat. D’Artagnan strode in with Constance by his side, the two chatting about one thing or another. It seemed that his entire world was made up of her bronze curls and casual smile. He didn’t even acknowledge the greeting that the cook gave him, something that might as well have been a cardinal sin considering that the cook fed the entire garrison and could just as easily not.

“Do you suppose they’re soulmates?” Aramis asked, voice almost wishful. Athos realized that neither he nor, apparently, any of the others had seen the other name on d’Artagnan’s wrists. That alone was not unusual, but with the close proximity the four spent it was rather remarkable. After all, Athos knew the names on Porthos and Aramis’ wrists just as they knew the names on his. They did not go out of their way to share, but they did not hide such things either. 

Each trusted his companions, his brothers, to not betray the trust that such knowledge held. But d’Artagnan, for his own reasons, had not done so.

Athos swallowed down the bitter feeling in his throat as d’Artagnan walked over, his grin blinding as it always was. “You and Madame Bonacieux are getting along well, then?” Athos asked, managing to keep his voice impartial. D’Artagnan nodded even as Aramis whistled, Constance safely out of hearing range. 

“I don’t suppose that--”

D’Artagnan shook his head and Aramis’ face fell for a moment, before recovering with inhuman grace. Athos couldn’t deny that he felt a surge of thankfulness as well, though he was not sure why. He attributed it to the fact that he did not want to have to be second best in d’Artagnan’s mind, wanting instead to occupy his thoughts with enough frequency to force the Gascon to improve even without direct interference. That would align with the traditional rival relationship, one that Athos was doing his best to fit in.

“Constance is not on either of my wrists, no.” D’Artagnan glanced around the garrison. Most of the musketeers were present, barring the ones on missions or on guard duty at the palace. Porthos was currently doing his shift with the horses, helping out with equipment checks and the general day-to-day that needed a more talented eye than the stablehands’. “Do you want to see?” D’Artagnan asked, voice soft as if he were about to divulge a state secret.

Athos would be lying if he told himself he was not eager and quite interested, but he did his best to shrug as he returned his pistol to its proper place. D’Artagnan’s soulmate was none of his business and he refused to act otherwise. Aramis, of course, had no such reservations and he nodded with eagerness rarely seen outside of Easter mass.

“I would be honored to know who your future beloved will be,” Aramis added, though his words were unnecessary. D’Artagnan was already pulling off his leather jerkin and tugging his sleeves up. On one wrist was Athos, written in what was now barely better than chicken scratch, Athos’ handwriting having fallen to the wayside in lieu of all his other obligations. On the other was the name Milady, each letter connected together in an elegant loop, the handwriting almost an artform rather than a necessary evil. 

For a moment, Athos felt his whole world turn upside-down. He recognized the handwriting, he had seen it for years and years, having passed letters and little excerpts of poetry with his beloved. But no, Anne was dead and had never gone by the name Milady. Athos was quite certain of that. 

Then again, he had also been confident that he wasn’t marrying a criminal but he had been wrong. Perhaps he was no the best judge of things… but no, Athos knew that his wife was dead and that she was not on d’Artagnan’s other wrist, handwriting be damned. He realized, with a jolt, that d’Artagnan was speaking to him.

“Athos? Aramis, do you think--” 

“I’m fine.” Athos blinked and swallowed, forcing himself back to reality. “Just… thought the writing was familiar, but it isn’t. My apologies.” Because if he had any way to connect d’Artagnan with his soulmate then of course he would. Athos was a bitter, old, heartless man but he was not cruel. Not like that. He would never deny someone their soulmate. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” d’Artagnan replied, voice ladened with concern. Before Athos could tell him just where to put that concern, Treville appeared in the balcony above.

“You three! Find Porthos, I have an assignment for you.” The captain disappeared for a moment, letting the trio lurch into action. He reappeared right as Aramis went off to fetch his soulmate. “This includes you, d’Artagnan. It would be good experience for you.” There was a silent implication that it would be much safer and, hopefully, remind d’Artagnan that being a musketeer wasn’t always undercover plots and swordfights. 

At least, that was what Athos hoped for. He hated dull missions but if d’Artagnan was coming… Well, the lad had almost died not two weeks ago. He could use a bit of a break.

When the four gathered in Treville’s office to receive the mission, there was a hint of tension in the room. But upon hearing their task, every man let out a breath he did not know he was holding. It was simple, really. They were to help escort a merchant to the Cardinal. Low risk, low reward certainly, but that was how musketeering went. 

“Try not to almost die this time,” Porthos teased d’Artagnan. Athos was not sure it was time for that sort of humor, but the Gascon took it in stride and replied in kind. After a few hours on the road, Athos was able to relax. 

Then the entire assignment went to hell. Porthos almost died, the four were forced to seek refuge in the very place Athos had sworn never to return to, and the man they were supposed to protect did his very best to make that task impossible. Athos managed everything in his usual way: by drinking in excess. 

But no amount of alcohol could ever erase the sight of Anne, his beautiful, cultured, kind, _dead_ Anne, standing over him with a knife in one hand and a torch by her side. Some part of Athos didn’t want to erase the image. The vast majority of him, however, wished that he had burned in the mansion.

The only source of comfort was d’Artagnan’s grounding presence, his reassurance that this changed nothing. At least one part of Athos’ horrible life was constant and that was the young Gascon. For all of his foolishness, d’Artagnan was a solid figure and he knew his way around a duel. After just a few months in Paris he was already able to challenge many of the other musketeers and Athos couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride every time d’Artagnan bested another. 

Yes, Athos life had been turned upside-down by the realization that Anne was still alive. But at least he had something to focus on, a reason to live.

 

 

 

 

“You fought for this chance, now fight to prove you’re ready,” Athos told his rival as the two of them prepared to duel. This was d’Artagnan’s best shot at becoming a musketeer and everyone knew it. Thanks to the young man’s growing presence around the garrison as well as his natural charm and good looks, most wanted to see him succeed. After all, they could always use more brothers-in-arms.

“I am ready,” the Gascon insisted. D’Artagnan pulled his gloves on as the noise of sparring rolled over them. The entire place was buzzing, of course, because of Treville’s announcement. Not only was every musketeer eager to show the Red Guard who was better, but the prize money and the prestige of winning such a competition was… Well, it was unheard of, really. Athos admitted that he was tempted to try to take the place as the musketeer’s champion, but d’Artagnan needed it far more than he did.

After all, he was just a washed up old man at this point. Someone with a dark past and a drinking problem. There was no need for him to try to earn any honor, he’d just lose it the next time he had to be dragged from the bar by his friends. No, it would be of much more use for d’Artagnan to be the champion chosen to go against whoever the Red Guards picked. There needed to be some way to channel all of the man’s rage from the events concerning LaBarge. Athos could think of no better way than to force d’Artagnan into training.

That being said, the look Athos gave d’Artagnan was smug at best and downright taunting at worst. _“What?”_ The thought of brushing him off and saying that everything was fine, that nothing was on Athos’ mind, sprung up. But the truth was that he was flooded with a sense of pride and happiness just at seeing how far d’Artagnan had come. No longer was d’Artagnan the innocent little Gascon farm boy, though that title had never really suited him in the first place. Now he was a true and tried warrior, someone who had faced death many times and came out the other end no worse for wear. 

It wasn’t entirely thanks to Athos. Everyone had done their part in raising d’Artagnan, from Aramis’ steady hands to Porthos and his much more rough methods and even the cook’s sharp insistence that d’Artagnan eat more. But it was impossible not to feel a little bit of pride as Athos let himself acknowledge that he had done something right. That d’Artagnan was all right, thanks to him. 

Of course Athos was never going to say that aloud. “You have natural talent, but too often you let your emotions run away with you,” he replied instead, his sharp words true regardless. “Talent won’t keep you alive if your heart rules your head.” And, well, that struck Athos to the bone. In that moment he could see Anne standing over him, about to kill him, only stopped because of d’Artagnan’s timely appearance.

Athos hadn’t realized it until then, but after that he had been relying on his hard-earned talent and skill to keep him alive, slacking on his training with everyone except d’Artagnan and the other two. Worse, he had downright stopped drinking anything that wasn’t alcoholic except for the sips of water he needed to live during the hot midday lulls. He had found few reasons to continue living, not with the guilt over Anne back to eat him alive in full force, and no doubt would already be dead if not for a certain Gascon who seemed to constantly charge into Athos’ life at the most bizarre moments.

“Can we just get on with it?” D’Artagnan’s words snapped Athos out of his thoughts and he couldn’t help but smile. Some things didn’t change and he couldn’t help but appreciate that. Even when the rest of his life seemed to be in turmoil, there was d’Artagnan to keep him in check and remind him that the world did go on.

“My point exactly,” Athos shot back, readying his sword. Yes, d’Artagnan was young and foolish and brash, but he was also one of the most compassionate and intelligent people Athos had ever met. Despite or perhaps because of his upbringing, d’Artagnan had qualities that most nobles did not even know the word for. Athos was always struggling to describe him in his thoughts or to the others, searching for the right words to explain how d’Artagnan was different on any given day.

But some things stayed the same, such as d’Artagnan letting his emotions get the better of him and marching off in fury after Athos let it slip, or rather taunted him with the information, that LaBarge was being kept in the Bastille. 

Treville eyed Athos and the musketeer braced himself for some disparaging comment. “I was trying to provoke him,” Athos explained though he knew that Treville would have picked up on that already. The captain let out a soft sigh, knowing that this by far was one of Athos’ less harmful pursuits. 

“You succeeded. Keep an eye on him,” was all Treville had to say on the subject before he walked away. Athos stood there in the middle of the garrison, words caught in his throat. Because what he wanted to say was _of course, always, anything for him._ But that was too close to something a man might say about his soulmate and for all of Athos’ feelings, all of his emotions in regards to d’Artagnan, even he knew that they could not be that. They could not be in love because Athos had been in love and it was nothing like what he had with d’Artagnan.

Athos sighed and went about following d’Artagnan. There wasn’t much of a question as to where the Gascon was going. There were only a few places where he could get justice for what LaBarge had done and the Cardinal had claimed jurisdiction over the man in question. Now the only issue was getting there before d’Artagnan.

 

 

 

 

 _The Bastille, of course,_ Athos thought as he raced to the complex and prayed that he wasn’t already too late. He cursed himself for thinking that he could stop d’Artagnan at the Cardinal’s offices. According to the red guards who would stop insulting a musketeer long enough to taunt one, d’Artagnan had gotten there and left well before Athos had arrived. They hadn’t been clear on where the Gascon was off to, but it was a mere process of elimination for Athos to decide where to go next. Now he had to hope to God that d’Artagnan wasn’t actually stupid enough or confident enough to challenge LaBarge to a fight. Prisoner or not, the man was still a beast and Athos had no doubt that d’Artagnan would lose considering his state of mind.

“Let me in now,” Athos hissed as he came upon the guards. They took one look at his uniform and the half-crazed look of passion in his eyes and decided that it would be best to let him pass. Good, because Athos was not above threatening others to get his way. Without another word he ran by them into the depths of the prison itself.

LaBarge could only be kept in a handful of cells due to his status, all of which were kept in a separate wing. Athos had been to the Bastille many times before, never as a prisoner thankfully, and his memory was good enough to guide him with only a few missed turns. Still, every time he found himself having to turn around he swore. If something happened to d’Artagnan because of his inability to navigate… if something happened at all to d’Artagnan, it would be Athos’ fault. He had considered this a possibility but had sorely underestimated the young man’s ability to get across Paris so damn quickly. After this was over, Athos made a mental note to work on his endurance or something. Anything to prevent this from happening again.

He turned a corner and heard someone let out a half-audible scream. _D’Artagnan,_ Athos’ brain supplied. The musketeer pulled out his pistol and dashed down the corridor, seeing an open cell and walking inside as if he had not been out of his mind with fear. When he saw LaBarge about to break d’Artagnan’s neck, he almost shot the criminal then and there. But he still had duties to the King and to his country which, unfortunately, extended to preserving the law and not executing people unless he was under orders. 

“Let him go,” Athos ordered. His voice was colder than his sword and he was fully prepared to break any number of laws in order to protect d’Artagnan. LaBarge saw him, grinned his horrible grin, and for one moment Athos was convinced that he would not let go. But LaBarge was no fool and he released d’Artagnan, standing up and returning to his bed. Without saying anything, d’Artagnan scrambled to his feet and went to Athos’ side. He rubbed the back of his neck and Athos made a mental note to get Aramis to see if he was injured beneath the skin; he had no doubt that d’Artagnan would refuse to visit an actual doctor.

 _Stupid Gascons,_ Athos thought. _He’s going to kill me someday. Give me a heart attack or make me fall over from shock._ Then again, there were worse ways to die. Athos supposed that he of all people would know.

“Get out!” LaBarge shouted and, really, they needed no encouragement. D’Artagnan marched out of the cell, hunched over. His poor mood was tangible in the air and Athos held back a sigh. The musketeer shot LaBarge one last look before leaving after his rival, prepared to do some amount of damage control but not quite certain what to say. Regardless of how foolish d’Artagnan was acting, this was still the result of Athos’ words and there was nothing that could change that. Athos knew he was just lucky that d’Artagnan was still alive. 

The two men burst out onto the street, taking a backway as neither was in any mood to face the guards who were in charge of the Bastille. They hid under some kind of awning, a rickety stable providing little cover. Athos glanced back at d’Artagnan, making a point to not let his eyes wander as the water trickled down his face and neck and soaked him through his thin cotton shirt. Of all the time to notice such mundane details, now was the worst. Athos at least had plenty of expertise in schooling his thoughts.

“What did I tell you about thinking before you act?” Athos demanded, letting a hint of his anger and fear seep into his words. He wanted to grab d’Artagnan and shake him, scream that he couldn’t do that again. It didn’t matter that they were rivals, destined by God to always be in competition and to never be fully satisfied with one another, d’Artagnan was not allowed to go off and die in a blaze of glory or emotion-fueled rage. Then again, Athos was not really able to stand on any moral high ground. 

D’Artagnan didn’t see it that way. “I couldn’t help it. I’m not like you,” he shot back. In the darkness it was impossible to see his expression, but if it was one of hurt then Athos deserved it. That didn’t stop the idea from sticking into his stomach like a knife and twisting. The musketeer held his tongue and wanted to look away. Athos reached out to grab d’Artagnan, shake some sense into him as a cover for feeling his pulse, his hot skin, as a reminder that he was alive. But that would have been foolish and so Athos did not.

“You are. More than you know.” With that, he glanced around the corner. Seeing that it was empty he started to walk off. “Now get some rest, we’ll train tomorrow.” Athos told himself that he wasn’t hurt that d’Artagnan didn’t follow, didn’t even try to ask how he was. After all they were rivals, not soulmates, no matter what confusing thoughts were going on in Athos’ head. He wasn’t even sure why he thought they might be anything else. There had been no indication that they were anything other than rivals. Hell, Athos was content with his lot in life for once. Why would he want to change that?

On his way to his poor excuse for lodgings, he encountered Anne. Milady. Whatever her name was nowadays, Athos was certain that she was not the same person who was on his wrist. And he hoped that she was not really the person on d’Artagnan’s other wrist. Poor boy, he deserved so much better than a cold-blooded murderer as a soulmate. Then again, if his other option is Athos then where does that leave him?

He doesn’t want to but he kissed Anne anyway. Athos felt her lips underneath his and sensed her beating heart in her skin. He knew when she tightened her fingers around the locket that was once hers and he knew that she could strangle him or cut his neck before he could draw his pistol or push her away. It was thrilling and dangerous and everything that he would have once longed for. But now there was nothing. No passion, no joy, hardly any emotion other than fury and disgust bubbling up below the surface.

She sensed it, of course, and pulled away. Their eyes locked and he needed no words, but he said them anyway. Told her the truth, that he would never be able to forget and could never forgive. Athos deserved her threats, her promises to make his life hell. And yet all he could think, even as she walked down the street in her shimmering dress, was _please don’t hurt d’Artagnan._

What that said about Athos he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that whatever he once had with her, with this woman who looked like Anne and sounded like Anne, was gone. She wasn’t his Anne, if she ever had been. They were no more soulmates than he was with Treville. Being with her inspired nothing but hatred and even a hint of fear, but not for his life. Athos did not care what fate or God happened to do to him. He was only concerned with a young Gascon with a head full of emotions and a sword at his hip.

Athos wasn’t sure what that meant and part of him did not want to know. But since when had he let logic control his actions? He strode off away from his former soulmate and resolved to talk to someone about how he felt sometime soon. After the LaBarge incident and the ridiculous duel with the Red Guard, that would be best. Until then, Athos could remain quiet about his feelings. The real challenge would be keeping d’Artagnan alive until then.

 

 

 

 

And then d’Artagnan was a musketeer. He was fighting for his life one moment, fighting for his life and his honor and for the honor of the rest of the musketeers. LeBarge was his opponent, seeming even larger in the daylight, ready to cut d’Artagnan down without hesitation. Athos felt his fingers curl around his pistol and ignored the glance of warning that Aramis gave him. If it came down to breaking the rules of the duel, facing the consequences from King Louis and whoever else, or losing d’Artagnan… There was no contest. Athos wasn’t sure what that said about his relationship with d’Artagnan and he was fine not knowing.

He didn’t hug d’Artagnan when the lad got his pauldron either. Not because he didn’t want to. Of course Athos wanted to touch, wanted to make sure that he was still alive. Just because he was standing there and breathing didn’t mean anything. Athos thought that Anne was dead and she turned up with only a scar around her neck. What would stop the living from just falling over onto the ground, souls gone from their bodies with seemingly no reason?

But Athos didn’t hug d’Artagnan, afraid that his beating heart would give him away. He slapped the newest musketeer on the shoulder, gave him a rare warm smile, and that was that. 

The four celebrated at their favorite bar that night. Aramis paid a little extra for the good stuff, not the cheap, watery wine that they usually partook in. Porthos even let d’Artagnan win a few rounds of cards, though Athos knew that there were at least three aces hidden in convenient locations around Porthos’ person just waiting to be played. If d’Artagnan thought anything was odd at the sudden lack of good fortune that Porthos was going through, well, he didn’t say anything.

Athos, for his part, kept to the drinking and watched the events with a carefully neutral expression on his face. He was in as good a mood as he could be, though Anne’s words continued to echo in his head. Now that d’Artagnan was a musketeer it would be impossible to keep him safe. That wasn’t an option though, if Athos was being honest with himself, it really hadn’t been one for a while now. The only difference would be that d’Artagnan would be getting paid to throw himself headfirst into danger. That really didn’t make Athos feel any better.

“You are unusually quiet my friend,” Aramis spoke up. “Is the wine not to your liking?” There was a shit-eating grin on his face and Athos rolled his eyes. Aramis knew quite well that this was one of Athos’ favorites because it didn’t taste horrid and it wasn’t so expensive that he was regulated to eating rotten bread for a week.

But Athos could also tell that there was an undercurrent of concern in Aramis’ words, a silent request for some kind of reassurance that things were… Well, they didn’t have to be ok. But at least that things were not bad. And Athos could give that much. 

“I am wondering when Porthos is going to rob our newest musketeer blind,” he drawled. D’Artagnan and Porthos both began to protest, which was an amusing sight in of itself. Athos felt his lips twitch as d’Artagnan complained, sounding for a moment just like the young man who had walked into the garrison so many months ago. “I merely jest. We all know that Porthos leaves his dirty tricks for the Red Guards,” Athos conceded.

Porthos nodded a few times, thinking. “I hardly need ‘em for the Cardinal’s men,” he asserted. Athos tipped his hat in agreement, taking a long sip from his cup. Porthos was the only one not drinking wine, preferring the heartier beer that had a more pungent taste but also got one drunk faster. “So, d’Artagnan, are you going to leave us for another unit?” Porthos asked. 

The thought hadn’t even crossed Athos’ mind and he felt his stomach lurch. Certainly it would be easier for d’Artagnan to gain recognition if he was not with the three best musketeers of the regiment, but he had done all of his training with the trio. Would d’Artagnan leave behind the months of trust and friendship in exchange for better possibilities? Athos wanted to say no but his palms started to sweat and his heart beat an erratic pattern. After all, he and d’Artagnan were rivals. Wasn’t it natural for them to part ways? And if it was, then why was Athos so distressed over the idea?

D’Artagnan shook his head. “I don’t think I will.” He grinned and if he happened to catch Athos’ eyes, well, that was just coincidence. “What would happen to you if I left?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just turned back to his game and put down his hand. “Four of a kind, Porthos. Looks like I win.” From the look on Porthos’ face, d’Artagnan won fair and square. 

Aramis let out a soft sigh, smile on his face, as he took a sip of his wine. There was a lull in conversation while Porthos reshuffled the cards. “Athos,” Aramis began before stopping. This earned him a raised eyebrow from the aforementioned musketeer. “It isn’t important,” the sharpshooter tried to insist but Athos wasn’t even close to believing him. “Fine.” Aramis sighed again. “Athos, let’s leave them to their game. I think I want something to eat.” 

It was a weak excuse to pull him away for a talk, but Athos couldn’t think of a good enough reason to decline. Besides, he really did want to know what was on Aramis’ mind. With that, the two musketeers stood and walked to the other side of the bar. A long wooden counter denoted where people could go order food and it was there Aramis waited, leaning against it without a care in the world.

“Are you hungry?” Aramis asked. “I was considering bread and cheese but it’s a special day. Do you think d’Artagnan likes pork or mutton more?” Athos gave him a look that made it clear just how much he cared about this topic of conversation. Aramis just shook his head and ordered a loaf of bread, a cut of mutton, and some cheese for their table. He tossed the necessary coins at the serving girl, winked, and looked back at Athos. “So your boy’s a musketeer.”

“He isn’t my boy,” Athos replied immediately. Aramis made a noncommittal noise and shrugged. “D’Artagnan is not a boy either. He’s a young man, yes, but you can hardly call him--”

“Athos,” Aramis interrupted, voice gentle, “Porthos and I have noticed that something is… different. About you and d’Artagnan. Has something happened?” He sounded so concerned that Athos couldn’t even find it in him to disagree. His silence, instead, was the prompt for Aramis to continue. “If this is about d’Artagnan being a musketeer and working with us, I am certain that if you talk to him--”

“This has nothing to do with him.” It was Athos’ turn to cut Aramis off. The sniper raised an eyebrow and Athos let out a heavy sigh, leaning against the bar and looking up at the ceiling. If he were a more devout person, he would send a prayer for guidance. That, however, was Aramis’ job. “How do you know that Porthos is your soulmate?” Athos found himself asking, hardly believing the words even as he heard them.

From Aramis’ expression, it was clear that he had been caught off-guard. He let out a low whistle and glanced over at the man in question. Porthos was winning now, a grin that would be wicked on anyone else’s face plastered on his. D’Artagnan was biting his lip and glancing at his cards and Porthos with quite some frequency. Athos didn’t need to look at Aramis to know that the man was smitten with Porthos, but there was something comforting about seeing such physical proof of their adoration for one another.

As if sensing that he was being watched, Porthos turned to look at the two. His grin grew wider and he said something to d’Artagnan that got the younger man laughing. With that, Porthos went back to his game, though he was less hunched over than before. Aramis shook his head and smiled at Athos. It was a look saved for Porthos-related incidents and, not for the first time, Athos wondered how he had ever survived without the two men in his life.

He almost hadn’t. 

“There is this feeling,” Aramis began, “and it starts small. Like a seed, planted in your mind. At first you do not notice it because it does not matter and by the time you see it, it is too late to do anything but let it grow and see what will blossom.” His eyes were distant, gaze unfocused, and Athos wondered what he was thinking of. His first conversation with Porthos? The first time they touched?

Perhaps, under cover of darkness or in one of their rooms, their first embrace? Kiss? More? Athos was unsure the extent of his friends’ bond and he scolded himself for that. It was not that he had ever been involved with others and their relationships before, nor did he care much for the day-to-day gossip, but Aramis and Porthos were different. They were his brothers and he should know more.

“It is this feeling of… Of being complete. That you are no longer alone.” Aramis’ mouth turned up into a soft smile, so unlike the usual ones that Athos could not help but be shocked by the difference. He had seen Aramis flirt with many and give Porthos small winks or nods, but never… Never something so _raw_ and open as he was now. “It is the feeling of real, true love. This need. A need for someone, leaving you incapable of existing without them.” Aramis seemed to snap out of his daze and he grinned at Athos. 

“That,” he declared, “is what a soulmate does to you. But here I am thinking you already knew that.” Aramis turned, tipped his hat at the barmaid, and took the waiting food into his hands. Without another word, he left to rejoin the others. 

Athos lingered at the bar for a moment, saying nothing and looking nowhere but at d’Artagnan. The Gascon did not notice the gaze, did not see the way Athos’ lips twitched and then shifted into a full smile. It did not last long and soon Athos was walking back over, face masked with his usual scowl, but that was not important.

When the two of them locked eyes it was as if lightning came through the roof and struck Athos where he stood. Because, before, he had not understood what Aramis was talking about with soulmates. He had never felt that with Anne, only a deep love and a drive to be a better person for her. But now, looking at d’Artagnan’s brown eyes and easy smile… Athos did not know what he would do without him.

He didn’t want to find out. 

“Do I have something on my face?” D’Artagnan asked, brushing at his chin and lips. Athos shook his head and reached around the man he was convinced was his soulmate, intending on taking a piece of bread and cheese. Instead his fingers brushed d’Artagnan’s arm and, gloves be damned, it was like sticking his hand in fire. 

Athos pulled back, wincing, expression mirrored by d’Artagnan. At this point Porthos and Aramis realized something was wrong but said nothing. Porthos began to speak but his soulmate shook his head, putting a finger to his lips. 

No words were exchanged, just d’Artagnan and Athos looking at one another as if they were the only two people left in France, in Europe, in all of the known world. Athos hadn’t the faintest clue why this hadn’t happened before, for they had touched many times dueling or after a battle or even casual touches outside of the garrison. But he was not complaining.

D’Artagnan was able to speak first. “So,” he began, “I suppose that means we’re soulmates.” Athos swallowed, recognizing the way d’Artagnan left him room to deny everything. To turn and leave. It was tempting, oh God was it tempting, but Athos had never backed down from d’Artagnan and he was not about to start now.

“I suppose we are.” Athos felt his eyes soften and one corner of his lips turn up. Later, Aramis would call that his d’Artagnan smile. For now, it was the physical manifestation of appreciation for the first person who had really given him happiness for so many years. For his soulmate.

 

 

 

 

He should have known it was not to last. Athos and the others had been through more assassination attempts in the past eight months than they usually were in four years so it was only a matter of time before a much different kind of plot was discovered. When it was, Athos felt the air leave his lungs. He wanted to fall over and sink into the ground and have the sky open up and strike him with lightning, anything but stand there and listen to this. 

Anything to avoid hearing that d’Artagnan’s coldhearted Milady and his once sweet, no longer dead Anne were the same. But no, there was no mistaking the evidence and Athos took every bit of news in stride. And by that, he resisted the urge to run out of Treville’s office and go actually drown himself at the nearest bar. One of them had to have a barrel of wine large enough for a fully grown man to dunk his head in, right?

“We need to make her believe she has won,” Athos found himself saying, stopping Treville in the middle of some speech that was no doubt important and motivational. Athos didn’t care. He just had half-planned ideas and so many thoughts running through his head that it was like the middle of Paris during one of King Louis’ appearances. “If we can take the Cardinal down through her even better. But right now the biggest danger is her. She knows… She knows too much.” 

He knew he was avoiding the question that was on everyone else’s mind, questions of how it was possible for Milady to have his name and d’Artagnan’s name and not seem to be soulmates with either. “She doesn’t know that we know who she is. That she is… she is my wife and d’Artagnan’s benefactress,” Athos continued, gaze focused on the center of Treville’s desk. “As long as that continues we have the upper hand.”

“Why does it need to continue?” D’Artagnan questioned. “Milady thinks she holds all the cards. We can use that against her.” He proceeded to outline the most ridiculous, dangerous, unimaginable plan that Athos had ever heard in almost six years of being a musketeer. Of course, it was so utterly impossible and risky to implement that Athos didn’t even need to hear half before his head is shaking. 

“No. You are not putting yourself in danger--” D’Artagnan laughed. The sound cut into Athos. Not because he hadn’t heard that before, but because it was such a mockery of d’Artagnan’s other laughs that it grated Athos’ ears and made his stomach twist in unpleasant ways. 

“Athos, I’m a musketeer. We cannot be having this argument every time I go on a mission. Just because we’re soulmates--”

“We aren’t soulmates.” Athos had no idea what overcame him in order to have those three words leave his mouth, but immediately he wanted to take them back. He didn’t want to look at d’Artagnan’s face but he did anyway, taking a moment to see the expression there and looking away immediately after. It was too late, of course. Athos already knew that the sight of d’Artagnan, devastated beyond words, would haunt his sleep.

But it’s too late to take the words back so Athos took in a deep breath, gave himself a moment to recover, and returned to the conversation at hand. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? Anne is my rival and Milady is your soulmate. Not every bond is the same, everyone knows that.” At his desk, Treville shook his head and stood.

“This is a conversation for another time. I want you four to talk about this. If we are to confront the Cardinal and bring Milady to justice then we need to work together. Any dissent, even the smallest, will bring an end to this before it can even start.” He looked at his four best musketeers, expression guarded. No, not guarded per se but… defensive. “You are dismissed.”

Athos nodded and left the room before any of the others could stop him. He heard Aramis and Porthos talking to one another behind him, whispers and snippets of their conversation falling into his ears. He didn’t care and kept walking, heading straight for the garrison’s exit with every intention of going and getting too drunk to see straight. With any luck he would black out, wake up in some ditch, and stumble back well after inspection.

D’Artagnan had other ideas. He followed and, right as Athos was about to leave, called out his name. The older musketeer let out a sigh and turned, looking at his so-- his rival with a careless expression. “What do you want, d’Artagnan?”

“You know what I want, Athos.” The Gascon narrowed his eyes, fury burning bright and radiating off of him in waves. It was the most attractive and most terrifying thing Athos had ever seen and it took everything in his power not to grab d’Artagnan and pull him into a very much not platonic embrace. Athos has never wanted to kiss anyone more in his life and it shakes him to the core. 

“You cannot be my soulmate and Milady’s. She cannot be my rival and yours as well. It stands, then, that one of us is at best her rival and the other is at least her soulmate.” Athos was well aware that d’Artagnan wanted to argue but lacked the vocabulary and the knowledge to do so. He’s also well aware that Aramis and Porthos were doing their best to be covert, sneaking glances at the two every few moments and pretending to be busy polishing their pistols or sharpening their swords.

But if his brothers-in-arms want to spy on him, well, Athos won’t stop them. Yet. He can always confront them later and demand that they stay out of his business, though he knows that they wouldn’t listen. Nor would he ever ask that of them. Not anymore.

“So that’s it, then? You’re just going to have us go back to what we were?” Athos felt his scowl grow. 

“You act surprised, d’Artagnan. It is not like we acted like soulmates.” And Athos knew he wasn’t wrong. They had grown closer and had many more late nights without Aramis nor Porthos, but they had not kissed. They had not hugged. Their relationship had not changed except in name alone. 

D’Artagnan snorted and shook his head in disbelief. “You really think that this doesn’t feel like soulmates?” Before Athos could ask what d’ARtagnan was talking about, the Gascon stepped forward, grabbed Athos’ head, and kissed him.

It was a rough, lackluster kiss in every aspect except one: it was with d’Artagnan. Athos felt his eyes flutter and and his lips part in a groan. He was a hardened warrior, a man who had killed more people than he had kissed. Hell, he had tried to kill one of two people he had ever loved. And d’Artagnan wanted to be the second lover, his second soulmate. 

If just a kiss made Athos feel this good, well, he couldn’t help but think that he could leave the musketeer life behind and just stay with d’Artagnan forever. It would not be that bad of a fate. 

“Did you feel nothing?” D’Artagnan hissed, face millimeters away from Athos. A puff of air left Athos’ lungs hot and heavy, brushing against d’Artagnan’s still moist lips. There had been a few exceptional kisses in Athos life, but none had come close to that. If they were not soulmates, Athos would eat his hat.

He shook his head and turned away. “D’Artagnan, your plan calls for me to shoot you. I cannot do that to my soulmate.” _I cannot hurt my soulmate again. I cannot hurt you again._ He hoped that his meaning was clear. D’Artagnan did not stop him and Athos hoped that was a good sign, not something signifying that their relationship was over before it had a chance to really begin.

 

 

 

 

The next day, the four were called up to Treville’s office. He asked if they had come to a conclusion and a heavy silence descended over the room. Athos tried to look at d’Artagnan but the young man did not meet his eyes. He stepped forward, hands on his belt, and swallowed hard.

“We’ve come to an understanding,” d’Artagnan informed the room. Athos was just as surprised as the others. When had d’Artagnan compromised on anything? “If Athos agrees, then we can start tonight.” 

Now four pairs of eyes lay on Athos, each asking different questions. He did not look at any of them except for d’Artagnan, the person who meant the most in all of France. What he saw in those eyes was reassurance, a promise that things would turn out all right. This was not the same young man who had charged into the garrison one day, swinging a sword and challenging a well-trained and dangerous musketeer to a duel. D’Artagnan was older, wiser, battle-tested and hardened. Yes, he could still laugh and his smile brought a lightness to Athos’ heart that was otherwise missing, but d’Artagnan was no farmer.

He was a musketeer and Athos had to accept that.

“Of course. Capturing Milady is more important than…” Not d’Artagnan’s life. Nothing was more important than that. “Than any personal feelings of mine,” Athos settled on. Treville looked at him and raised an eyebrow, checking that everything was ok. Nothing was but, for all intents and purposes, Athos could pretend. He was quite good at doing so. 

He nodded and Treville looked away, turning his focus to the four as a whole. “This is more dangerous than anything you have done before.” Now the captain turned to Aramis and Porthos. “You two… I will see no harm is brought to your honor if you decide not to do this.” Without missing a beat, Aramis and Porthos shook their heads.

“With all due respect, sir,” Porthos responded, “never suggest that we would not fight tooth and nail for our brothers.” Treville nodded. He had expected nothing less. 

“Good. Now we can get started.”

 

 

 

 

Athos knew he could not kill the woman who was once Anne, but he did not know if he would have any other option. Aramis had pulled him aside and promised that he had only to give the word and she would be dead, one of Aramis’ bullets through her head. It would be a quick death and that was more than she deserved. Athos had nodded and continued loading pistols, but he already knew that he would not take Aramis up on his offer. Anne was Athos’ problem and not even d’Artagnan had the right to decide her fate. 

Which was why Athos had his sword pressed against Milady’s throat, able to kill her with a flick of his wrist. She stared at him, chest heaving, daring him to do it. “Your wrists,” Athos found himself saying. “Show me your wrists.” Milady’s face shifted for a moment, emotions too subtle for him to see, but she did as he asked. 

D’Artagnan was curled around one and Olivier lay across the other. Athos wanted to scream or cry, he was not sure which. Milady was watching, of course, but if she felt any satisfaction it wasn’t visible. Athos didn’t count that as a victory; there was no winning when it came to this woman. Even at swordpoint she still found a way to rip him apart. He felt d’Artagnan squeeze his shoulder and bit back his emotions. When he spoke, his voice was steady. 

“How is this possible?” Milady glanced between him and d’Artagnan and her eyes widened, if just for a moment. Then her lips morphed into a cold smile, burning anger behind her eyes. “I am not your soulmate and he cannot be yours.” _Because he’s mine._

Milady shrugged, the casual movement betrayed by the gleam in her gaze. “The Church does not enjoy acknowledging the fact that soulmates can hate each other, use each other, just like archenemies. But they can. And my dear Athos, I never did love you. But d’Artagnan… Perhaps I could have.” He felt the words hit him, heard them echoing in his mind, but the truth was that they did not surprise him. Not anymore. He drew his sword back, ready to kill her, but stopped.

They were not soulmates, Athos was certain of that. But the idea of killing d’Artagnan’s soulmate, even if it was her… He could not do it. Even the idea made his stomach twist and chest contract in frustration. Athos felt himself moving without even meaning to. He dropped his sword and pulled back, turning away and reaching for the locket that hung on his neck as his own personal noose. 

Athos vaguely heard his name being called as he ripped the chain off and tossed it aside, two arms wrapping around him, the tickle of long hair against his neck. “I’m yours, Athos, yours, I will never be her soulmate,” d’Artagnan promised, words soft and only for the two of them. Shivers ran up and down Athos’ back as his mind refused to work, unable to form any reply. “She is lying, there must be another explanation.” 

He turned and looked at d’Artagnan, seeing the honesty in his gaze and knew that the truth did not matter. It did not matter what Milady thought, if she was soulmates with d’Artagnan or Athos or, somehow, neither of them. Fate only controlled them so much. D’Artagnan wanted to be with Athos and so they would be soulmates. Years ago, the idea of so much being unknown would have been repulsive to Athos.

Now? He had spent so long in misery, this chance at happiness would not go to waste.

“If I ever see you in Paris again,” Athos spoke up, clearly referring to Milady, “I will kill you.” There was a pause and then the sound of her standing and fleeing. Athos did not resist as d’Artagnan drew them close and held the other man in a vice-like grip. Neither wanted to part and that was more than ok for Athos. “I--” The words caught in Athos’ throat and tears pricked the corners of his eyes. 

D’Artagnan pulled away and offered him that beautiful smile. “It’s ok, Athos. I know.” 

_I know. I love you too._


End file.
